IS Life imitating Art ? â whatâs going on with the murderous shark?
Sharm El Sheikâs become deserted, Beaches empty, no tourist sighted
All clear, all clear was the shout, as the local fisherman held a shark by its snout
OK everyone gather, itâs now safe, to go back in the water.
Screams of delight soon became screams of panic
As the wily slippy shark was back on his picnic
Off came a leg and then an arm departed
This sharkâs fun had just restarted,
Put the red flags up again and clear the beaches
We need the assistance from experts, teach us
Out went the call to Schneider, Shaw, and Dreyfus et al.
But alas those not dead couldnât make it to the Sea Red.
Their best shark-catching days beyond them,
And a hungry shark still abundant
Call for the Mossad; they will sort it
After all arenât they the ones who dumped the fish feed for it,
We canât do that, cry the Egyptians; we will not support this mission.
We canât trust the Israelis, they're no good at fishin'.
Ok, so what is the answer, to put an end to this marauding monster?
Itâs simple as the nose on your face, or the fin on its back
Just leave the area one and all, and donât come back
And let the shark take the glory, this his time to tell his story
The last time Spielberg won, now the sharkâs having the fun
And any way itâs all to no avail, âcause he will probably be eaten,
By a rogue whale
Penned by a Fisherman's Friend. Those lozenges are HOT!by 08 December 2010
I forgot my Visa password, and I really have to thank
The nice lady (whoâs in Bangalore) I spoke to at the bank
She took me through security, although weâve never met,
And in a trice my missing code was finally reset
But this last straw set me thinking, could there be a better way
Of managing PINs and passcodes? I forget one every dayâŚ
My credit cards have Chip and Pin; of those I have a brace
And for two matching debit cards my wallet has a space,
My internet accounts have codes (of those I manage five)
My stockbroker needs yet one more to keep my access live.
Thereâs also some for Amazon and PayPal and Ebay â
In entering the dratted things I pass my life awayâŚ
For one or two of these a passcode isnât quite enough;
I have to give my favourite book, or other some such stuff ;
An animal; my second cousinâs motherâs maiden name,
And when you try to log in the requests are not the same.
A place I like? Some famous guy? The colour of my eyes?
To remember all this at my age is worthy of a prize
My NHS computer needs a code to let me in,
My voicemail inbox on the Net requests another PIN;
To login to the X-ray system needs a further code
Pathology has still one more â and adding to the load
My email servers (there are two) both know my username
But insist that no two passcodes used should ever be the sameâŚ
Then what about my laptop? One bad day I nearly died;
The password had escaped me, and it said âAccess deniedâ
And made me wait two minutes till it let me try again,
Then when that failed, first five, then ten, âtwas getting quite a pain
The wait was exponential, and up I got quite het
And took it down the corridor for IT to reset.
Itâs bad enough to have codes for each access and each item
And on a secret memo it is possible to write âem
But some require six characters, some eight and for the cash
Some need an upper case (or two), or ampersand, or hash
And some will not allow you back to pre-computer slumber
Unless the jolly code contains a question mark and number.
So now I am quite organised, all codes I can remember
But that will cease to be the case when we get to December
For another cunning detail that is in the small print hidden
Is that every now and then youâll find that you are cruelly bidden
âFor your protectionâ (so they say), but just an extra load â
âYour password has expired now; please next choose a different codeâ!
By airtube, a receptionist from here got faeces, badly packed, I fear.
She opened the bag with the pot and only then noticed, but what? Tâwas covered in wet diarrhoea.
Now gloves should be worn, itâs the norm but the stool on her hand was still warm.
So she got on the phone to have a good moan at the sender, and filled in the form.
A week later she started to do enormous great quantities of poo.
The doc took a history to solve the great mystery and really he hadnât a clue.
He took all the relevant tests and sent them by airtube - you guessed.
- biochem, histology, - haem and cytology, but micro, though slow, was the best.
Maybe some old mozzarella gave her giardia or a shigella,
colitis or Crohnâs, C. diff. even stones but later, there grew salmonella.
Quite soon there were several more cases with outbreaks in different places.
Special gel gave some hope, and water with soap. But compliance - it held all the aces.
Infection Control tried us to save. To each patient a side room they gave.
Public Health called it a case of a national disgrace, and the situation soon became grave.
Ideas of cross-infection were sound. To the Ref. Lab. the samples were bound.
The tests from the two (the pod and some poo) - identical phage-types were found.
The receptionist remembered the pod and she told the doctor, thank god.
She knew what to do â she decided to sue the sender of the faeces, the sod.
Unwelcomed into birth,
I still wandered with might,
As flames fashioned from fire
Forms Fate from Fear and Fright.
Good Will, Good Cheer, my Lance, my Spear,
And blind Faith still to mold my tear,
I set forth to find my worth that lies not here,
Unwelcomed into my right,
I know not whence I came,
Nor the smile that cradles my vein,
But I walk forth, for I know my aim is right,
With the sun, the stars and the sky above me
To guide my strength and ambition alike
And my conscience to teach me wrong from right
Unwelcomed into life
To set these wrongs to right
Against what comes my way,
To test the strength of my might,
The taste of blood and what hate conceived
Drives my Will to further my soul to highest of heights
I stand guard of unwelcomed souls,
Who were left to trot on earth like me
Like Silence cloaked by a Wintery night,
My smiles can hide sorrow and grief alike,
âTis the scent to the beauty of a flower
Young soldiers are dying in Afghanistan
In bitter fighting with the Taliban,
From bullets fired through the blinding dust,
Or explosives buried in the roadside crust.
Rivulets of blood congeal in the heat
And conspire to conceal half-missing feet,
And scorching salt-sweat-blinded eyes
Collude in this sickening desert disguise.
Scream above the thudding cacophony
And the rattling shattering small-arms polyphony
To summon the medicâs magic kiss:
Oblivion from morphineâs i/v bliss.
Donât tell me supplies are running low
In fields where Opium Poppies grow?
Ask the Afghan farmers, when theyâre near,
If their poppies will grow in Oxfordshire.